


let me down slow

by growlery



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, intoxicated kissing, this is ridiculous and I'm not sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 13:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7619074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miller's waiting outside the library when Monty emerges at the end of the hour, leaning up against the wall, smoking a roll-up. It's a horrible cliché, complete with the requisite pounding in Monty’s chest, the drop in his belly, but Monty’s a stoner hippie turned dealer so he can make it through college with only vaguely crushing debt. He's long made peace with being a cliché.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let me down slow

Monty’s in the library, earbuds in, halfway into the assignment from hell, when someone taps him on the shoulder. He has half a mind to ignore it, because this coding exercise is due in three days and Bellamy invited him to a party tomorrow with the kind of eyebrow waggle that promises drunken makeouts, or at least drunken cuddling, which, when Bellamy is doing the cuddling, is almost better. But it's the introductory tap, and Monty’s not in a position to turn down new customers.

Monty leans back in his chair, enough that he can see who's sitting behind him but not enough for it to look suspicious to onlookers. He gets a jolt of surprise; it's Bellamy's friend Miller, without his signature beanie but with a neatly trimmed beard.

Monty doesn't know a lot about Miller, except that his dad is a cop and that Bellamy thinks the sun shines out of his ass, which isn't actually a very good character reference because Bellamy has terrible instincts about people - he still gives Monty the time of day, after all. Suffice to say Monty’s a bit suspicious.

He cocks his head, waits. Miller just stares flatly at him. It's actually impressive how much disdain he can convey in one facial expression. Monty continues to wait, stubbornly patient, and Miller sighs and cocks his head the other way.

Monty nods. He leans forward in his chair again and waits for the next tap. He gets two, and even with his back to Miller, Monty can feel how grudging it is.

He grins. He nods to show the message has been received, then goes back to his coding exercise.

Miller's waiting outside the library when Monty emerges at the end of the hour, leaning up against the wall, smoking a roll-up. It's a horrible cliché, complete with the requisite pounding in Monty’s chest, the drop in his belly, but Monty’s a stoner hippie turned dealer so he can make it through college with only vaguely crushing debt. He's long made peace with being a cliché.

He clears his throat, and Miller looks up, a long slow blink that shows off his eyelashes. Monty grins past his suddenly dry mouth, and tries not to watch Miller's fingers as he stubs out his cigarette.

"So who sent you?" Monty asks, keeping it light, conversational, avoiding anything remotely incriminating. Miller's dad is a cop. He's just taking precautions.

"Drew," Miller says. "You're highly recommended." Monty can't help it; he preens a little at that. "Not sure the glorified handshake is worth it, though."

"Not over yet," Monty says, smiling brightly, and Miller sighs.

"You're fucking kidding me."

Monty shrugs, starts to turn away.

"We've gotta go to White Castle," Miller says, totally flat, like Monty dragged it out of him. "Now can I get some fucking weed?"

"Actually," Monty says, and grins when Miller groans. "I wasn't expecting to do any hand-overs today, so I'll have to head home and back first."

Miller huffs. "And that'll take?"

"An hour, plus or minus another half hour depending on how generous the public transport system is feeling today."

"Fucking hell," Miller says, "how do you have any customers."

Monty flashes a grin at him, but before he can say anything, Miller starts forward.

"Come on," he throws over his shoulder, "you can give me directions."

Monty doesn't usually - read: ever - do this; his healthy level of paranoia requires quite a bit of distance between his customers and his private life. But unlike Bellamy, Monty has great instincts about people, and he's, like, eighty per cent sure Miller isn't gonna screw him over.

A moments hesitation later, Monty follows.

*

Monty lives in a house off campus with a bunch of other students who are all too happy not to ask what he does in the basement as long as he pays his share of the rent on time. It's not in the best part of town, a fact Monty has never been this conscious of before, sitting in the passenger seat of Miller's sleek black car. It's probably some fancy make or another, but cars are Raven's thing. She's given up trying to explain it to him.

"Just here," Monty says, pointing to the house. He has to shout a bit, because he plugged his phone into the AUX cable to put on music, partly to drown out the silence, and partly because he knew it would make Miller scowl at him.

The scowl resurfaces, and Miller turns off the stereo as he manoeuvres them into a space not too far away from the house. Monty’s about to get out of the car, tell Miller he'll be back in five if Miller can wait that long, but Miller's already undoing his seat belt, opening his own door.

"You don't have to come in," Monty says. "Actually, I'd prefer it if you didn't."

Miller arches an eyebrow at him. Monty does not find it attractive. Monty will not find it attractive.

"I thought your whole deal was not to be suspicious," Miller says. "Something something cyber security, something something the government is watching everyone, something something phones are for people who want to get caught."

"They are," Monty says, which is probably the wrong thing to focus on. It's possible he's flustered. He doesn't appreciate it.

"But you want me to wait in the car for you to bring me illegal drugs," Miller says, and Monty says, "You were the one who insisted on giving me a ride," and Miller lifts his eyes heavenwards.

"How do you have any customers," he repeats, but he's still here, and he follows Monty to the basement hatch instead of getting back in his car, so he can't judge.

The place is kind of a tip, another fact Monty’s never been this conscious of before, with Miller's gaze sweeping over the room. Monty flashes him a smile, clears the stuff off his bed and gestures for Miller to sit down, which he does, gingerly. 

"Since you're here, any preferences?" Monty asks, sitting in his desk chair. When Miller's face stays blank, Monty elaborates, naming a few common strains.

"Uh," Miller says.

"Oh my god," Monty says, "are you a weed virgin?"

"That isn't a thing," Miller says flatly.

"Is so," Monty says. "Are you?"

"That's none of your business," Miller says.

"Which means no," Monty says. "Why do you even want it?"

Miller exhales very deeply. At this point; he doesn't need to repeat himself; Monty can read it in his eyes.

"Why," Miller says, "does that matter to you."

"You've always gotta know the why of the thing," Monty says. "I'm still not convinced you're not running some amateur sting."

"You're a pot dealer called Green," Miller points out. "If anyone's running the amateur sting here, it's probably you."

"That fortuitous coincidence aside," Monty says grandly, "I have a long and storied history of being a sketchy motherfucker. You, what, woke up one day and decided you wanted to experiment with the high life?"

"Something like that," Miller says, "yeah."

Monty doesn't normally do this. Monty doesn't normally do any of this, though, so it doesn't seem as colossally bad an idea as it probably is to rummage in his private stash for the joint he always has on hold and say, "Then experiment."

Miller takes the joint, eyebrow raised. It's still not attractive. It's just- it does distracting things to Miller's face, and Miller's face is distracting enough as it is.

"You're Bellamy's friend," Monty explains, even though friend seems a little bit inadequate a descriptor. It's not that you can't have friends that you talk about all the time and touch in a way that manages to be both absent and reverent at the same time, but Monty has good instincts about people, and he suspects, he suspects. "He'd hate me forever if I didn't at least check it wouldn't fuck you up first."

Monty expects a sharp retort, but what he gets is Miller's gaze dropping, his hands fidgeting with the rolling paper. He has really beautiful eyelashes, Monty notes, and he drags his teeth over his mouth a bit when he licks his lips.

"Fine," Miller says eventually, "but you're taking the first hit." Monty raises his eyebrows, and Miller shrugs. "I don't know what you've put in here, man. How else can I trust you?"

"I think we've established I have a vested interest in making sure you're not hurt," Monty says, but he takes the joint back anyway, even though he never, ever does this. It's almost a rule. Monty’s going to make it a rule, like, as soon as Miller leaves.

For now, he sparks up, inhales deep, and leans back to blow smoke into the air. When he tips forward, Miller is watching him. He doesn't look away when their eyes meet.

"Trust me yet?" Monty says, and his voice is gravelly from the smoke. Miller licks his lips again.

"Pass," is his response, and Monty does. He watches carefully, notes the microexpressions on Miller's face as he inhales. Miller holds the smoke in his lungs for a second, two, three, four, and then he leans forward and presses his mouth to Montys, exhaling. He's gone before Monty can do anything but choke, and bursts out laughing.

"Dick move, man," Monty says when he's stopped coughing, but between the way Miller's eyes have crinkled and Montys smarting lips, he's finding it hard to pretend he minds.

He takes the joint back, ashing into the BMO ashtray Raven got him for his birthday before he takes another drag. Miller's inched forward on Monty’s bed, and when Monty scoots his chair forward, Miller's mouth parts. Monty briefly considered exhaling in Miller's face, purely out of spite, but Miller's lips are wet and his eyes are dark and when Monty brings his mouth to Miller's, he feels Miller sigh against him.

"Good?" he asks, and isn't sure what he means.

"Tell you when I've finished it," Miller says, and if Montys answering smile is too soft, well, it's definitely the weed's fault.

They pass the joint back and forth between them, exhaling into the increasingly smoky air, until it burns down to the filter and Monty stubs it out into BMOs head. BMO doesn't look pleased about it. Monty sympathises. Monty feels like someone stubbed something out into his head, too.

Miller flops back on Montys bed, and Monty sympathises with that, too. He's still sitting in his desk chair, which seems ridiculous when his bed is right there, when Miller is right there. Miller's on Monty’s bed. Monty’s brain might have noticed.

Tipping forward, Monty lands face down on his bed, bouncing slightly. He giggles, and beside him, Miller turns his head and frowns. It's a bemused frown, Monty thinks, not an annoyed frown. Monty can live with being bemusing. It's definitely better than annoying.

"Is this why you're so highly recommended," Miller says, and Monty giggles again.

"Sadly, no," he says, "but it'd be a great sales pitch."

"Makeouts with your marijuana," Miller says, almost philosophically.

"We haven't actually made out," Monty says, and Miller licks his lips, looks up at Monty from under his long, long eyelashes, and says, "Yet."

"You're really pretty," Monty says, instead of any number of other, much more sensible, much less embarrassing, things. Namely What about that vested interest, and Bellamy might still kill me, you know.

Miller bites back a smile. "Thank you," he says, very seriously. "I think you're pretty too."

He touches Montys cheek, stroking down until he finds Montys dimple, and nothing can hold back the smile on Miller's face. Monty’s torn between pressing his mouth to it and leaning back to bask in the glow, but Miller doesn't give him much time to decide. He drags his thumb down, over Monty’s lower lip, and Miller's smile turns lazy. Monty has to kiss him, then, Miller's thumb still holding his mouth open. Monty drags his teeth over it, relishing the way it makes Miller press in harder.

"There," Miller says when they part. He's trying to sound triumphant, or something, but it's sort of ruined by the unevenness of his breath, his voice. "Makeouts with your marijuana."

Monty ducks his head into his chest and laughs and laughs. When he surfaces for air, Miller is watching him, but Monty doesn't know what he'd call the look on Miller's face, this time. Endeared, maybe, but even intoxicated, Monty thinks that's a bit of a stretch.

"I'll get your weed," Monty says. "I think it's safe to say your experiment worked."

He's a bit lightheaded when he sits up, but that's probably just because he was lying down, took the ascent too quickly. He scoots back over to his desk, which is as much of a mess as the rest of the place, but it's a mess that Monty knows intimately. It doesn't take him long to make up Miller's bag, using the same stuff he packed the joint with. When it's done, Monty spins round on his desk chair, holding it out to Miller flat on his palm, like an offering.

Miller takes it from him, trying and failing to pull a suitably solemn face. He gets out his wallet, starts flipping through the bills. "How much do I owe you you for the..."

He mimes smoking a joint, and Monty makes his eyes go wide and round.

"A moment of silence," he says, "for Nate Miller's lost innocence," and Miller says, "You're such a piece of shit, Monty," but he's laughing, too.

"Seriously, though," Monty says, "don't worry about it." He can see Miller about to protest, so he barrels on. "I insisted. Call it an investment in your custom."

Miller gives him an extra twenty, anyway, which is way too much and Monty should give it back, he really should, but his pride never wins when it has to face off against his desire to be able to pay his fucking bills.

"Consider my custom invested," Miller says, which doesn't make any sense. Monty is going to tell him this, but Miller follows it up with a smacking kiss and a giggle, and the thought gets a bit lost. "Sealed with a kiss," he adds, clearly smug, clearly so proud of himself he can't hide it on his face.

"Oh my god," Monty says, but he's grinning, too, can feel it stretching his face. "I'm going to regret this so much."

"Nah," Miller says, "you won't," and Monty says, "Yeah, I won't."

**Author's Note:**

> this is secretly bellamy/monty/miller shhhhh


End file.
